"You're gonna kill her!" Buzini said, with pain in his voice.
"If she's lucky, she'll die. Now get the fuck outta here," he said. And when Buzini didn't move, Tommy grabbed one of Joe's priceless Aztec treasures off the sideboard and hurled it at the Shift Manager. It shattered against the wall. Arnold fled in terror.
Then Tommy grabbed Dakota up off the floor and pushed her backwards. She stumbled into the living room, leaving a trail of blood on the white carpet. But remarkably, she was standing her ground, weaving slightly, both of her fists clenched, ready to defend herself as Tommy moved toward her and stood a few feet away. It was a good punching distance for him, a distance he'd measured from the time he started fighting as a kid. "Okay, we need some answers, doll face," he said.
"About the worst piece of ass I ever had," she answered.
"That wasn't the question," he sneered. "Who are they?"
"Who are who?" she said, buying time, trying to clear her head. Without warning, he hit her again. This time she went down immediately. She had lost most of the strength in her legs. She was on the edge of going into shock, but she turned her face to him, glaring defiantly. "Better, but I'm still conscious. You can't even take out a girl, Tommy."
"You're a tough bitch," he said. "I gotta give you that."
"Or maybe you just can't hit for shit," she hissed, her voice cold as Wilkinson steel. She struggled to sit up against the back of the couch, breathing through her mouth.
"Who are they?" he said again. "The old fucker in the tricked-out wheelchair… who is he? A professional tat player? He's not in our records… He some kinda dice cheat?"
"His name is Harry Sutton," she said. "He's… not a dice mechanic, he's a… a physicist or some kinda physical engineer, an inventor."
"I see. And what's he been inventing, queer dice?"
"The dice are loaded with cellophane gas. He invented the stuff. It turns solid when you heat it, not the other way around… Could I have a wet towel for my mouth, please?"
Tommy moved to the kitchen, turned the cold water on and ran it over a towel and threw it to her. She caught it and held it to her mouth, which was bleeding badly. When she brought it away, Tommy could tell that he'd really connected with that last shot. He'd opened up a two-inch cut on her lip. "Go on," he commanded.
"Harry lives in Fresno, on a houseboat called Seismic Shot. It's docked at the Mud Flat Marina there. They brought me from Vegas, told me to pick you up."
"And who are you?" he snarled. "A hooker?"
"I'm an opportunist… who used to have a great smile."
"Go on. The redhead guy, who's he?"
She hesitated for a minute and Tommy took two steps forward and now was standing in range again. "Don't fuck with me, sis… I love wrecking people. This is my favorite sport."
"He's Douglas Clark. He's a doctor of geology. Works for an oil company… the Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company, or something like that. They just fired him and he's all pissed off about it. He's got some harebrained plan to get even. They're trying to buy the company's stock or something. That's why they were stealing from your casino, they need lots of money for stock… Could I have some ice? This lip is ballooning on me."
He went to the bar and grabbed a few cubes out of the ice machine and threw them at her. One hit her on the head and fell into her lap. She picked it up and winged it back across the room at him, missing and hitting a glass decanter behind the bar, breaking it. He knew he'd hurt her badly, but like a gutsy prizefighter, she refused to show the pain.
They looked at each other for a long time. Finally, Tommy moved back and, with the toe of his shoe, touched her deep between her legs. She recoiled slightly and closed her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees.
"So, they're not professional dice thieves?" he said. "We got hit by a couple'a outta-work scientists? I don't believe it."
"I don't know what their story is," she finally said. "They paid me five hundred bucks, plus expenses. Now it'll all have t'go for new bridgework."
"Or maybe a funeral." He looked at her for a long time. "This turns out to be bullshit, you're fertilizer."
"You can try," she said, and began to shiver as she started to go into shock.
Tommy felt better. He turned and went to the phone and dialed a number. "Get the Challenger ready," he instructed his pilots. "We're going to Fresno in an hour." Then he hung up and moved back to Dakota. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up to her feet. She surprised him again when she spit in his face. The glob was bloody and filled with mucus. He didn't wipe it off; he felt it roll down his cheek. He was still holding her upright by her hair and he could feel her legs shaking under her. She was barely able to stand, but still ready to fight. She glared at him defiantly. He was impressed. She was one hell of a woman.
"You're coming with me. It's gonna be fun," he said. "Maybe along the way you can help me get that weak punch a'mine straightened out." Then he hit her again. This time it was square in the mouth and sent her flying across the room. She landed on the floor, curled up, and moaned.
"That one was a little better, don't you think?" he said softly. Then he walked into the bedroom, threw a few things into a suitcase he would need for the trip.
*
PART FIVE
"If you get into anybody deep enough,you've got yourself a partner."
– ANONYMOUS
Chapter Twenty-One.
TOMMY HAD HIS PILOTS LAND JOE'S RED AND WHITE twin-engine Challenger jet at the Fresno Airport. It was four P.M. They taxied up to the new Spanos Executive Jet Center where Tommy had a limousine and three "heavy bag buttons" waiting. The buttons had driven over from Las Vegas where they worked as freelance muscle. The three enforcers looked like a wall of beef leaning against the front of the car. They watched as the big executive jet turned and parked. The wheels were chocked, and as the engines wound down, they pushed their bulk away from the black Lincoln stretch limousine where they had been bending the shiny fender with their bulk. The leader was a broad-shouldered hitter named Jimmy Freeze. Jimmy had a knife scar that ran down the side of his face like a psychopathic warning and disappeared into his collar. Beside him were the Summerland brothers, Wade and Keith, also ex-pro-football jocks. At over 250 pounds each, they were straining the stitching in their 56 extra-long suits. They had once worked for Joe and Tommy as security, until Joe fired them under dubious circumstances that Tommy didn't understand. So he threw a little work their way when he could.
When the door opened and the gangplank dropped, the first one off the plane was Dakota. Her face had swollen and turned purple where Tommy had hit her. Her split lip still needed stitches and dried blood was caked on the wound. She was in obvious pain and walked slowly down the steps, holding the rail for support. She was wearing one of Calliope's new outfits and it was too small on her. She was followed closely by Tommy. Dakota moved to the car and got in the back seat with painful care and without speaking. As Tommy approached, Jimmy Freeze motioned to her.
"The fuck happened to her?" he asked.
"Shut up and let's go," Tommy barked.
He got in the back of the car and the limo pulled through the gate and onto the Airport Highway. Tommy handed Wade Summerland a slip of paper.
"The Mud Flat Marina is the fucking name of the place. Call four-one-one and find out the address. She says these fucks are on a houseboat named Seismic Shot."
They sped past grain storage warehouses and freshly plowed fields alive with flying bugs, and headed toward Fresno. The sprawling city had grown up around the agriculture and the inland waterways that fed into the San Joaquin River, allowing the farm goods to be shipped cheaply to San Francisco on huge grain barges. Wade picked up the cellphone in the car, dialed Information, and got a number. He found out where the marina was and got directions over the phone. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled down the gravel road and parked in the marina parking lot. The place seemed deserted except for one or two cars parked in the lot near a closed, one-room marina office. A blue and white thirty-six-foot Winnebago was at the far end of the lot with the shades down.